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    David Copperfield
    David Copperfield
    David Copperfield
    Ebook1,219 pages25 hours

    David Copperfield

    By Charles Dickens

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    David Copperfield is the novel that draws most closely from Charles Dickens's own life. Its eponymous hero, orphaned as a boy, grows up to discover love and happiness, heartbreak and sorrow amid a cast of eccentrics, innocents, and villains. Praising Dickens's power of invention, Somerset Maugham wrote: "There were never such people as the Micawbers, Peggotty and Barkis, Traddles, Betsey Trotwood and Mr. Dick, Uriah Heep and his mother. They are fantastic inventions of Dickens's exultant imagination...you can never quite forget them."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBooklassic
    Release dateJun 29, 2015
    ISBN9789635267699
    Author

    Charles Dickens

    Charles Dickens (1812-1870) is the most popular and, many believe, the greatest English author. He wrote many classic novels, including David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, and A Christmas Carol. Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities are available from Brilliance Audio.

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    Reviews for David Copperfield

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    • 5/5
      What a terrific story! This book was part of our school curriculum when I was doing my seventh grade. I simply loved it. If you haven't read, you must read it.
    • 4/5
      This classic Dickens work follows the life of an orphaned David Copperfield and the people who shaped his life. He and his mother lived with a beloved servant Peggoty. After his mother's death, his stepfather removes him from school, sending him to work in a factory. Life is terrible, so David runs away to his aunt who agrees to give him a home. She calls him "Trotwood." He encounters the people from his past on many occasions and encounters more people who play a role in his life. The strength of the work lies in character development. The Penguin classics edition includes a large introduction as well as excerpts from a Dickens biography and early outlines of the novel.
    • 2/5
      Child manipulation.
    • 2/5
      Once again, I listened to the audiobook of this classic. Thank goodness for that, as I do not know whether I would have made it through the novel had I been reading it, or, if I did, it would have taken a matter of months. It's funny how though listening to audiobooks is slower than reading it can, at times, be much faster.

      The reason this would have been a really slow novel for me to read was the complete lack of plot. It is the autobiographical fictional biography of the title character. He begins with his childhood and goes into his old age. There is no narrative to speak of. What I expected was that it would be about how David Copperfield overcame the incredibly evil Uriah Heep, since the only thing I knew about the novel was that he was the bad guy, but that's not really how it was.

      While the story wasn't bad, and I am glad that I managed to get through it just because of its fame, I definitely was never anywhere close to loving it. I never connected with the characters and saw a lot of the plot twists coming from a ways away. If interested in Dickens, I would recommend instead the rather less well-known Bleak House (and watching the miniseries...so good!).

      There are a number of audiobook versions of this novel, I do believe. I would certainly recommend this one, although I have not listened to the others, for one determined to get through the classic novel David Copperfield. For one thing, you get to listen to fancy classical music at the beginning and conclusion of each of the 60 chapters. I love that, although I do regret that an already incredibly long book is made longer. The production seems to have been fairly good, although they did miss editing quite a bit of Griffin's breathing.

      Griffin does a really good job as a narrator, as his pompous voice fits quite well to the lofty air of Dickens' writing. He also is remarkable at doing voices, not to Robin Williams' level, but his various characters were generally quite distinct. In fact, many of the voices did not much resemble his his regular voice, so much so that it was sometimes difficult to believe that the whole thing was recorded by this one man.

      Unfortunately, some of the voices were rather creepy or annoying. Uriah Heep, of course, is intentionally given an irritating, writhing voice, but creepiest by far is the voice he uses for young Davy Copperfield. I will be haunted by this voice for a while.
    • 3/5
      At last away from the Murdstones, the plot started to pick up, then, thud, Wickfield, Old Soldier, and Micawbers balancedthankfully by Peggoty, Aunt Betsey, and Dick.3/4 of the way through DAVID COPPERFIELD and here's what needs to happen:1. Uriah and Steerforth, pistols at dawn = no survivors2. Dora falls in love with Malden, divorces fading Davey, & rides off on stallion3. Davey absently, yet quickly, recovers, and marries Agnes4. Agnes locates Martha and Emily who then move into a nice small picturesquecottage with Aunt Betsey - the Peggotys move nearby5. Hans sails to America to lead an Abolitionist Crusade6. Traddles finds Wickfield and Betsey's stolen $7. The Micawbers are written out of the plot where they never should have appeared8. The Mudstones, Mrs. Steerforth, and Ms. Dartle are admitted to any asylum wherethey make each other, and not us, insane&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&Finished the book and, at last, Davey and Agnes Marry!Definitely wrong about Micawbers, at least the Mister, who comes to playa pivotal role, at last.
    • 4/5
      Een van de beste van Dickens. Grote vaart, minder feuilletonachtig dan vorige; maar structuur is schakelgewijs, met enkele grote sprongen; sommige personages komen na 10 hoofdstukken weer terug; vanaf hoofdstuk 52 neemt de spankracht duidelijk af. Kaleidoscoop van personages, de ene al interessanter dan de andere; bijna allemaal blijven ze aan de oppervlakte steken; opvallend is de engelachtigheid van de vrouwen (op tante Betsy na); Centrale thema: mengeling van hoe iemand op zijn jonge leven terugkijkt, en anderzijds een oefening in relatievorming (het huwelijk van de Micawbers als rolmodel)Centrale waarden: goedheid, zorg, trouw; geluk in huiselijk leven;
    • 4/5
      I do so enjoy Dickens when he's at the top of his game. It's as though he's emptied a box of thread on the ground and let it roll off in a million different directions, and then somehow he manages to weave the each one into something glorious and beautiful as the book concludes. Dickens at his best is immensely satisfying, complete literature.

      I loved reading this, although I must say not so well as I loved "Great Expectations" and "A Tale of Two Cities."

      Things to bear in mind when you read this book:

      1) Be patient with Dora. She's doing her best.

      2) It is appropriate to want to run certain characters over with a mail-coach at important points of the story.

      3) Uriah Heep. That's all.
    • 5/5
      Admittedly, I am a huge Dickens fan. I have read many of his books and enjoyed all of them. His bizarre characters, complex plots, and humorous dialog resonate with me. That being said, David Copperfield stands out as being one of the my favorites. With the audiobook classics, I usually listen only while driving. I can only take so much of the elaborate prose and sentences that span an entire page. But I found myself completely mesmerized while I was listening to Simon Vance's recording. I brought the audiobook with me everywhere and finished the book (almost 34 hours) in under 2 weeks. Brilliant and unforgettable.
    • 4/5
      DIdn't love it and am feeling rather insecure about this. I think my problem was that the plot to page ration was a bit skimpy for my tastes. He did publish this as a weekly serial, which does explain why he dragged it out so long.
    • 4/5
      I have read, in this order, Bleak House, Nicholas Nickleby and David Copperfield, and my enjoyment of them is ranked more or less in the same order. They are all deliciously written, and are bursting with Dickens’ unique character portrayal (including some quite startling examples of womanhood which, being no kind of feminist at all, I am perfectly willing to overlook in exchange for being entertained; it’s important to put these characters in context… it’s not just the women who are drawn in extremis, after all) but David Copperfield, despite its share of comedic characters and passages, is perceptibly less delightful a read than the other two, the author’s own entanglement in the tale bringing substance and detail, but also a seriousness which seems to place a burden on the novel rather than enhance it.The reader follows the titled protagonist through a troubled childhood into an early adulthood as an articled clerk, into marriage, a writing career and beyond, while around him, Copperfield’s friends are being led into ruin by various parties. Without doing any research into this, I’m assuming that the autobiographical aspect of David Copperfield centres upon his childhood and intimate adult life rather than the broader plot and character cast – particularly novelising the arena in which villainously ‘umble Uriah Heep begins overthrowing reputations, the alternative being too bizarre to contemplate. For me, the rich detail of childhood, and the emerging plot sat very oddly together, as though the author were telling two different stories at the same time, and happened to be the principal character in one of them, and an observer, rather than hero, in the other. Macawber, Traddles and Mr. Peggoty manage to sort themselves out quite satisfactorily, in the end, while Copperfield’s own successes seem an entirely separate matter. Despite this odd disparity, I enjoyed David Copperfield as a story – Mr. Macawber’s verbosity might have been frustrating at points, but it was worth it for --- that ---- HEEP speech, and overall, Dickens’ talent for creating characters that are both enormous in personality and multi-layered, so they don’t simply become caricatures was, if anything, more in evidence in David Copperfield than in even those of those works of his that I prefer… Steerforth, particularly, is a wonderful example of how to draw a character and then use him.
    • 5/5
      The story is narrated in the first person by Davis Copperfield who describes his birth to start things off. His mother is a timid creature who fall for the wrong person and alter marries him. This person along with his sister terrorize David and his mother. After his mother's death David runs away from his house and goes to stay with his eccentric aunt. Her he gets an education and as young man studies law. But in the meantime he discovers that he can write and makes a huge success of himself.The book is mostly satirical but has its moments of sadness. Most of the characters are eccentric but oh so lovable. Dickens' narration flows like a river and is very crisp.A slow but great read.
    • 4/5
      Rich, dense, and very good. The problem I ran into with this is the archaic morality, the way women are irredeemably ruined at the hands of cads and bounders. Aside from that, I enjoyed this long and excellent book. The cast of characters is multitudinous and well-differentiated, the plotting is delightful, and the turns of phrase memorable. "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery."
    • 3/5
      Great, memorable characters are the highlight of this book. Those are what I remember.
    • 4/5
      This is a wonderful novel, in which David feels like a real person, unlike many of Dickens’ characters. As a reader, I sympathized with his painful childhood, the vicious characters he has to survive, his mistakes and what he learns from them. As he begins to mature, I felt, yes, he’s growing up, and he’ll be okay. The development of David, in association with so many extraordinary and memorable characters, lets you overlook the plot devices and improbable coincidences that Dickens uses to move the story in the direction he wants to take it. And what characters – among Dickens’ most inspired. (Is snake-like Uriah Heep really the inspiration for Harry Potter’s snaky enemies? Rowling seems to have a Dickens-like love of incident and odd characters.) And even though the trajectory is perfectly obvious, it remains satisfying because David is a character you’d like to know as a friend. After reading over 700 pages, it’s a bit sad to have it end.
    • 5/5
      I was thoroughly entertained by this and never found it a slog reading through its 800 plus pages--and that actually came as a surprise to me because I am by no means a Dickens' fan. I decided to read this one because it's on the the list of 100 Significant Books I've been reading through--and because a friend told me that I should at least try this one before giving up on Dickens. This was actually his own favorite among his novels, and the one most autobiographical. Even knowing as little as I do of his life, I could certainly see plenty of parallels between the young Charles Dickens and David Copperfield. And especially given this was written in first person, this book has a confessional quality that drew me in and propelled me forward.The thing is this novel I so enjoyed is guilty of every sin that so often drove me batty in Dickens: the rambling plot riddled with unlikely coincidences, the long, long length, the at times mawkish sentimentality, the phrases repeated again and again, the characterizations that often seemed more caricatures, and above all, the women characters that convince me Dickens thinks of the female gender as not quite human--or at least I felt so at first. David's mother Clara in particular drove me up the wall--I wanted to reach into the book and throttle her. It seemed to me in my reading of several of Dickens novels that his women run to four types or combinations and at first David Copperfield seemed no exception. There is the angelic creature who is often a victim, such as Clara, Little Em'ly, Agnes and Dora. There is the evil harridan such as Miss Murdstone or Rosa Dartle. There is the sacrificing Earth mother such as Peggoty. And finally, there is the (often rich) eccentric such as Betsy Trotwood. But ah, often the eccentric characters are so richly comic--and in the case of Trotwood there is more than initially met the eye--in fact I wasn't a third way through the novel before I loved her. And Agnes grew on me too. Not everyone's reaction--George Orwell, among others, despised the character. But she was the first female character who struck me as being a rational creature. But they're memorable--and not just the women. I don't think I'm ever going to forget Mr Micawber. I know I'll never forget Uriah Heep, the most odious, shudder-worthy villain I've met in literature. So yes, after this book I got more of a sense of Dickens' charms. A Christmas Carol has been a favorite since childhood. And I did love Great Expectations--till the end, which I found a bit of a cheat. But I hated Oliver Twist and A Tale of Two Cities. It's David Copperfield that's convinced me I should try more of Dickens. It was worth traversing its long and winding length.
    • 4/5
      Well, I've always enjoyed Dickens anyway, with my favorite still being Great Expectations, but this story now comes in a close second :) The story of Copperfield's life, from the night he was born, to the stage in his life where he is finally settled & prosperous is an eventful one. Along the way he meets some interesting characters, like Mr. Micawber, & the 2 villains of the tale, Murdstone & Heep. He finds friends that are true, like Tradderly, & the Peggotty clan, & ones that are false, like the charismatic Steerforth. This story is nevr boring, always down to earth, & the characters approachable.If you've never read Dickens, this is a good place to start :)
    • 4/5
      This is, of course, the life story -- the very detailed life story -- of Mr. David Copperfield, from his birth onwards, including his horrifically unhappy childhood, his romantic entanglements, and the doings of his various interesting friends.It's definitely the characters that make this one enjoyable. Copperfield himself is carefully and believably drawn, and he knows a lot of entertainingly quirky people, many of whom turn out to have some interesting hints of depth underneath their quirks. I imagine I will be unlikely ever to forget Mr. Micawber, or Uriah Heep, or David's formidable, eccentric Aunt Betsy.I'm not sure it has a plot, exactly, so much as a loose connection of subplots, but that's fine; they're decent enough subplots. It does all get a little melodramatic at the end, although I suppose for Dickens, it's probably pretty mild on that score. I do have to say, though, that Victorian ideas about women and relationships and marriage inevitably strike my modern sensibilities as weird and kind of creepy, which always puts a little uncomfortable distance between me and the characters in such novels, and this one doesn't really qualify as an exception.It also goes on a bit too long. Not that this is the sort of book one picks up expecting a rollicking, fast-paced thrill ride. It's more the sort to immerse yourself in when you're looking to live somebody else's life for a while, and if you're rushing through it, you're probably doing it wrong. Still, I think I would have been happier with it if it were a couple hundred pages shorter. It doesn't help that Dickens has this habit of writing characters who tend to repeat themselves over and over. I don't know whether that's his attempt at naturalistic dialog, or whether it's the result of him trying to make a word count, but it does get annoying. Although, fortunately, either that eased off substantially by the middle of the book, or I'd gotten used to it enough by then that it stopped bugging me quite so much.In the end, it's a book I am glad to have read, but also glad to finally be finished with.
    • 5/5
      I should probably write down all the things I've wanted to say about this book before I forget them.

      First off, I totally adored the first three hundred pages or so of this book. It's sad and funny and Dickens is a fantastic writer. I did enjoy the rest of the novel, but I didn't fly through it as I did through David's childhood years.

      This is mostly, I think, the unfortunate side-effect of Dickens being clever. First sentences of novels are always important, and the first line of David Copperfield is pretty crucial: "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show."

      Is David the hero of his own life? As a child, he is, and that's what makes the story so engaging. Beset by difficulties, we watch him persevere defiantly, despite his innocence and helplessness. It's a powerful, simple narrative for the rest of the story elements to group around.

      As he grows older, however, David rather strikingly loses his agency. For one thing, he explicitly goes from making use of his own moral resources to choosing between the examples of Steerforth and Agnes. By the last paragraph of the novel, it is clear that Agnes is in many ways the hero of David's life. I suspect that Dickens is implicitly questioning whether it's even a good idea to be the hero of one's own life. This is a pretty cool statement about selflessness and humility, so Dickens's choice seems to have some merit.

      However, there are some negative results of de-heroizing David. David's loss of agency (dear God this is beginning to sound like a paper) is especially evident near the end of the novel, when all the major subplots of the novel - Little Em'ly, the Micawbers, even Uriah Heep - are pretty much resolved without David's help; he is merely a witness. Again, Dickens seems to have set up David to be a non-hero. But he's sort of shooting himself in the foot here in terms of narrative coherence. It's uncomfortable to read about someone who stops being the main character halfway through, which arguably is what happens to David Copperfield.

      For me, the most engaging subplot during David's adult years was Dora's story. She's so likable yet so pathetically tragic, a wonderful critique of Victorian ideals of femininity. I love the moment when David, in the process of trying to form her character, realizes that "her character had already been formed." Their flawed love story is often quite powerful and unadorned, simply human in a way that David and Agnes's (don't worry, there will be a rant about Agnes later on) is not. Moreover, their marriage is the result of David's first important moral choice as a man. It was a bad choice, but seeing David deal with the consequences in a frankly heroic way is satisfying in a way that watching him watch Uriah Heep's defeat is not quite.

      I am not sure whether Dickens wanted us to view David's loss of power as sinister in any way. Probably not very, considering the happy ending we get. Still, small details worry me - such as the way that Betsey Trotwood, a wonderful character in her own right, renames David, and he never corrects her or Agnes about what to call him. When a novel is called David Copperfield and the main character ends up being called by a different name, what are we supposed to think? I find it just a bit worrisome, personally.

      Anyway, to the Agnes rant I promised. In my opinion, the most problematic element of David's anti-heroic status is poor Agnes. I thought she was simply a terrible character. Her list of qualities looks good at first glance - she's kind, practical, smart, compassionate, and not nearly as much as a pushover as I'd initially feared. However, the way Dickens writes her, she's only a laundry list of characteristics, and not a real person at all. She has no physical presence in the novel; whenever she's described, it's in terms of abstract adjectives - "practical" and "calm" are repeated more time than I can count. She's even described as having a spiritual aura that fills Canterbury with goodness and light. It's not merely that Agnes is every Victorian notion about women as spiritual examples and angels of the household wrapped into one quite improbable girl; if she felt real, I could forgive Dickens for, well, being a Victorian. It was really the manner in which she was presented that make her totally unlikable. Unlike Peggotty and Dora and Betsey Trotwood and even Mrs. Copperfield, who are all psychologically believable flesh-and-blood women, Agnes is a spiritual ideal masquerading as a person, and Dickens was proudly showing this off rather than giving her a human face.

      The result of this choice is really rather odd. On one hand, Agnes's characterization means that David's moral agency merely consists of choosing Agnes as his moral guide. That's all very nice and selfless and Christian, although a bit frustrating for the reader, who probably wants David to make more complex choices. But at the same time, Agnes feels like this insubstantial idea who only exists to give David Copperfield moral bearings. Despite David's passivity, I started feeling as if everyone in the novel were just planets rotating around his immense gravitational field. Everything was about David Copperfield! Now, perhaps this is an unfair criticism for a book that is, after all, titled David Copperfield, but most of the characters maintain a solidity and self-possession that Agnes simply does not have. At her worst, she's a woman who really and truly exists for the sake of a man. While Dickens' failure is fascinating to analyze, I still have to regard it as a failure.

      Needless to say, it's a very big novel and I would have to reread it again to even begin to organize the rest of my thoughts on it. Generally, I thought Dickens managed this bigness well, and it was a very good read full of very good characters, my criticisms notwithstanding. And in terms of the bildungsroman that is the first few hundred pages, I think it's probably one of the most important novels ever written in English, because I see its legacy very clearly in all sorts of coming-of-age novels written since.
    • 4/5
      Well, it is not to be missed, but Dickens was paid by the column inch, and it shows. Still...you need to read it.
    • 3/5
      So I finish one of the more tedious reads of my life so far.

      Dickens came highly recommended. For years many have told me I'd love Dickens. “Dickens is just your type of author,” the masses (or a few) have said. No, he's really not.

      If Dickens excels at one thing, I'd say that thing is his characters. They can be entertaining, funny, and memorable. Each is unique. Each has his or her own voice. There is such a large cast of characters here and Dickens is not only able to give them each their own identity, even those who have only a couple lines, but also to keep them straight. It's a feat I've never seen accomplished elsewhere.

      And what makes reading Dickens so painful? His characters. Yes, those wonderful, colorful characters gnaw at my increasingly fragile patience. They are gross caricatures of caricatures. Perhaps Dickens invented the caricatures; perhaps every exaggerated human personality was original before Dickens came on the scene. Even if that were the case, which I honestly doubt it was, they are so ludicrous they annoy tolerable little me.

      It certainly doesn't help that while Dickens utilizes many voices, he employs only two basic personality types for his female characters: the shrewd, severe woman, and the helpless damsel. Though each woman Dickens creates is unique in many ways, she is essentially a variation of one of these two.

      And Copperfield himself? Well, he's probably a little bit of the helpless damsel himself. He's so passive in every decision he faces it's a wonder the plot progressed. But, you see, if Copperfield acted on his impulses (like when he feels he should defend the poor girl who is being beaten page after excruciating page) then the reader wouldn't get all secret actions and dialogue Copperfield (as the narrator) wouldn't be privy to. Thank God that Copperfield stood behind that door out of propriety, letting her father handle the situation himself (in fact he was either too scared, or too concerned with his own career as an author to worry whether the girl lived or died). And that would all be fine if David Copperfield were written in a way that the reader was supposed to feel pity for Copperfield, antipathy or wonder. No, Copperfield is a delightful lad who is a hero to all. Blah.

      If you ask me, David Copperfield is too sentimental, too exaggerated, too melodramatic. Perhaps others thought I'd like Dickens because I am a little bit of all these things. There's nothing wrong with these qualities, and if people like to read that sort of thing, I think they should. But me? It was too over the top. Throw in all the conveniences (Ahhh, here comes that character from chapter 4, randomly knocking on a door a hundred miles away) and the pat ending, and it's cloying. Cloying and boring in one (sort of like a Hershey's).

      Dickens was good at what he did, and it's hard to judge his work negatively because of this, but I really had focus to stay with it. I wasn't interested in the story or any of the characters because I couldn't believe in any of them. It was a sort of fairytale coming from the mouth of one with a monotonous voice. It was the sort of story I'll return to in later years when I'm struggling greatly with insomnia. Sorry, Chuck, but your Hershey-flavored story wasn't for me. I'm more of a Ritter Sport or Toblerone kind of man.
    • 4/5
      A heart-warming story of the struggles of a young boy growing up in England, in the 19th century, without a loving family. This is a good story to teach the history of life and the struggles of growing up in a world where children were not well cared for. Charles Dickens shares the struggles that he faced as a child. Good for teaching that you can become successful even if you have problems as a child.
    • 4/5
      It took me a long time to read David Copperfield -- because I stalled in the middle for... well, about three months. It's hard for me to review it as a whole, in that light. I remember reading it when I was younger quite vividly, but I'm not sure I ever got past the first few chapters, back then. It's contrived to get tangled up in my mind with Great Expectations, somehow.

      It's interesting to know that this book is thought to be based largely on Dickens' own life. I don't know if he ever said that himself, or whether it was deduced by other people. If he did look on David as himself, it's a wonder he wrote about him so frankly. It certainly seems like a lifetime's worth of Dickens' experience went into creating it, anyway.

      I liked it a lot, despite the length and Dickens' tendency to go on a bit. I felt sorry for David a lot, and sometimes wanted to slap him -- which is the way I feel about some of my favourite characters, and shouldn't make you think I didn't like him.
    • 5/5
      ****CONTAINS SPOILERS****Virginia Woolf calls David Copperfield "the most perfect of all the Dickens novels" and I agree that it is quite the tour de force (not having read all of Dickens' novels yet, I can't say for certain that this is the best one). Dickens' talent shines the greatest in the characters he invents. In one respect, these characters are so unique and ludicrous that one keeps reading to see what he will come up with next. On the other hand, something in some, if not all, of his characters strikes a chord of familiarity that makes them quite human after all. In fact, much of the book, for me, lies in this plane intersecting the fantastical with the all too real. To some degree, one has to suspend reason to believe all the coincidences that occur throughout the novel. But then again, real life does quite often through you in the path of an old acquaintance, former roommate, friend of a friend, etc. etc. In one respect, it seems as though the ending of the novel is too good to be true with all the "good" characters successful and happy and all the villains getting their just desserts. But this is an over simplification if the reader recalls how many of the good characters are killed off or are exiled to another continent, separated from their family. And what of the bad lot? Uriah Heep and Mr. Littimer are worshipped as demigods in jail and catered to their every need. Mr. and Miss Murdstone are up to their old games, terrorizing another young woman. So while Dickens gives an ending that feels all too warm and fuzzy at first glance, there is a bit of reality in there, as well. Likewise, there is the character of David Copperfield himself. Critics have argued that he is more of an observer than an actor - a character who things happen to, not who makes things happen. As I was first reading the novel, I felt this way. But as I got further in, I realized that at many times and places, Copperfield does step up and act, but it's that as the narrator, Copperfield doesn't note his actions in the same way as he does others' actions. When Traddles works day and night to rise in the world, Copperfield praises to the skies Traddles' good spirit, his earnestness to work, and so forth. When Copperfield puts himself to the grind, he notes it as a matter of course and moves on with his narrative. Although the novel doesn't focus on social issues as much as say Hard Times for These Times, many of the issues of the time are touched upon - child labor, corruption in the government, the nonsensical prison system. All these elements together, along with others, make this novel an incredibly interesting read that will give the reader plenty to think about. It is a long novel that is well worth the read.
    • 5/5
      In this semi-autobiographical novel, a successful writer reminisces about his early life and education. What starts as episodic memories soon becomes a vast witty narrative delight of over eight hundred pages with multiple intertwining plots and over thirty distinctly memorable characters from every level of nineteenth century English society. The false humility of the repulsive Uriah Heep and the grandiloquent optimism of the ever impoverished Wilkins Micawber, a character Dickens based on his own father, have become characters that have grown to be cultural touchstones beyond the novel.
    • 5/5
      This novel is another reason Dickens is read generation after generation after generation. I certainly remember reading Dickens in school, by my appreciation for him has grown greater in my later years. There are probably many who grasp Dickens at the high school level and can enjoy him greatly, it is not until my later years that I have come to really enjoy him. This novel origianlly published in magazine form over a duration of time can at first seem long and daunting and yet is seemed in no time that I was able to finish it. The title character obviously is David Copperfield and this is somewhat of a autobiographical sketch of the author Charles Dickens life. (Notice the initials DC and CD). While the first of the novel can seem almost unbearably painful with the character's father dying just several months befor his birth and hiss aunt abandoning the family immediately after Copperfield's birth and the loss of his mother at at young age, things do get better. Dickens introduces us to a cast of characters that are enjoyable and we get to follow along as David Copperfield goes through his own life. If you enjoyed Dickens in high school, than you are ahead of the game. If you did not enjoy Dickens in high school, than give him another chance.
    • 3/5
      Enjoyable novel. What to say about this classic? I enjoy Dumas, Hugo, Hardy and Scott - but somehow I always struggle with Dickens. It isn't that I don't enjoy it, it is just that I'm not sure that I care about where the plot is going. I think the characters are interesting, but I'm not quite as interested in what is happening to them.
    • 5/5
      I've read this book a dozen times and still find something new. The first novel I really read inside and out.
    • 5/5
      I'm not going to embarrass myself by trying to review this book.
      I will simply say two things -
      1. It definitely lived up to my expectations as a great book.
      2. I can also see how someone could despise it.

    • 4/5
      This reads like a memoir of David’s life starting with his birth. His life as an orphan, mistreated by his stepfather and eventually running away to his aunt who had wished he were a girl, his marriage to his child bride and eventual success as an author gives this book has a blending of fairy tale with bildungroman. The story compares punitive father figure Mr. Murdstone with the eccentric fun of Mr Micawber. There is elements of problems that surround class and gender mostly in the tale of Emily and Steerforth and Agnes and Uriah. My conclusion is “all’s well that ends well”. This book is the most autobiographical of Dicken’s works. This book was written in the usual serial method but also encompasses some of the newer, psychological realism and social details of the changing novelistic style.
    • 4/5
      The first time I've read a book on the recommendation of a fictional character in another novel. The main character in Per Petterson's 'Out Stealing Horses' re-reads David Copperfield regularly and finds it inspiring for his approach to life. I hadn't read any Dickens since school days so when I saw it in a charity shop I thought 'why not?'. And I'm glad I did. A 700 odd page meander through the life of David Copperfield is known to be a heavily fictionalised and romanticised autobiographical novel by Dickens. What a pleasure it is to wade through the high Victorian mannered and florid language at such a leisurely pace. Characters sculptured rather than sketched so it's no wonder they have endured as much as those in Shakespeare. Great also to get a view of life in the mid 19th century. Pre-electronic and pre-motor car life was nevertheless full and varied. But with it a clue to the sytle of writing. Long and leisurely. How else to fill the evenings?

    Book preview

    David Copperfield - Charles Dickens

    1869

    Chapter 1

    I Am Born

    Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

    In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night.

    I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it.

    I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don’t know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss - for as to sherry, my poor dear mother’s own sherry was in the market then - and ten years afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short - as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go ‘meandering’ about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, ‘Let us have no meandering.’

    Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth.

    I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or ‘there by’, as they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father’s eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months, when mine opened on it. There is something strange to me, even now, in the reflection that he never saw me; and something stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have of my first childish associations with his white grave-stone in the churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used to feel for it lying out alone there in the dark night, when our little parlour was warm and bright with fire and candle, and the doors of our house were - almost cruelly, it seemed to me sometimes - bolted and locked against it.

    An aunt of my father’s, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, of whom I shall have more to relate by and by, was the principal magnate of our family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss Betsey, as my poor mother always called her, when she sufficiently overcame her dread of this formidable personage to mention her at all (which was seldom), had been married to a husband younger than herself, who was very handsome, except in the sense of the homely adage, ‘handsome is, that handsome does’ - for he was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss Betsey, and even of having once, on a disputed question of supplies, made some hasty but determined arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs’ window. These evidences of an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey to pay him off, and effect a separation by mutual consent. He went to India with his capital, and there, according to a wild legend in our family, he was once seen riding on an elephant, in company with a Baboon; but I think it must have been a Baboo - or a Begum. Anyhow, from India tidings of his death reached home, within ten years. How they affected my aunt, nobody knew; for immediately upon the separation, she took her maiden name again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long way off, established herself there as a single woman with one servant, and was understood to live secluded, ever afterwards, in an inflexible retirement.

    My father had once been a favourite of hers, I believe; but she was mortally affronted by his marriage, on the ground that my mother was ‘a wax doll’. She had never seen my mother, but she knew her to be not yet twenty. My father and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double my mother’s age when he married, and of but a delicate constitution. He died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six months before I came into the world.

    This was the state of matters, on the afternoon of, what I may be excused for calling, that eventful and important Friday. I can make no claim therefore to have known, at that time, how matters stood; or to have any remembrance, founded on the evidence of my own senses, of what follows.

    My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins, in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at all excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was sitting by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden.

    My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance, that it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the strange lady, over the garden-fence, and she came walking up to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure of countenance that could have belonged to nobody else.

    When she reached the house, she gave another proof of her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like any ordinary Christian; and now, instead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the glass to that extent, that my poor dear mother used to say it became perfectly flat and white in a moment.

    She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born on a Friday.

    My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone behind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the room, slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side, and carried her eyes on, like a Saracen’s Head in a Dutch clock, until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and a gesture to my mother, like one who was accustomed to be obeyed, to come and open the door. My mother went.

    ‘Mrs. David Copperfield, I think,’ said Miss Betsey; the emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother’s mourning weeds, and her condition.

    ‘Yes,’ said my mother, faintly.

    ‘Miss Trotwood,’ said the visitor. ‘You have heard of her, I dare say?’

    My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply that it had been an overpowering pleasure.

    ‘Now you see her,’ said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her head, and begged her to walk in.

    They went into the parlour my mother had come from, the fire in the best room on the other side of the passage not being lighted - not having been lighted, indeed, since my father’s funeral; and when they were both seated, and Miss Betsey said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying to restrain herself, began to cry. ‘Oh tut, tut, tut!’ said Miss Betsey, in a hurry. ‘Don’t do that! Come, come!’

    My mother couldn’t help it notwithstanding, so she cried until she had had her cry out.

    ‘Take off your cap, child,’ said Miss Betsey, ‘and let me see you.’

    My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do so. Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such nervous hands that her hair (which was luxuriant and beautiful) fell all about her face.

    ‘Why, bless my heart!’ exclaimed Miss Betsey. ‘You are a very Baby!’

    My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appearance even for her years; she hung her head, as if it were her fault, poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she was but a childish widow, and would be but a childish mother if she lived. In a short pause which ensued, she had a fancy that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and that with no ungentle hand; but, looking at her, in her timid hope, she found that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress tucked up, her hands folded on one knee, and her feet upon the fender, frowning at the fire.

    ‘In the name of Heaven,’ said Miss Betsey, suddenly, ‘why Rookery?’

    ‘Do you mean the house, ma’am?’ asked my mother.

    ‘Why Rookery?’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Cookery would have been more to the purpose, if you had had any practical ideas of life, either of you.’

    ‘The name was Mr. Copperfield’s choice,’ returned my mother. ‘When he bought the house, he liked to think that there were rooks about it.’

    The evening wind made such a disturbance just now, among some tall old elm-trees at the bottom of the garden, that neither my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way. As the elms bent to one another, like giants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose, fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if their late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind, some weatherbeaten ragged old rooks’-nests, burdening their higher branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea.

    ‘Where are the birds?’ asked Miss Betsey.

    ‘The -?’ My mother had been thinking of something else.

    ‘The rooks - what has become of them?’ asked Miss Betsey.

    ‘There have not been any since we have lived here,’ said my mother. ‘We thought - Mr. Copperfield thought - it was quite a large rookery; but the nests were very old ones, and the birds have deserted them a long while.’

    ‘David Copperfield all over!’ cried Miss Betsey. ‘David Copperfield from head to foot! Calls a house a rookery when there’s not a rook near it, and takes the birds on trust, because he sees the nests!’

    ‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned my mother, ‘is dead, and if you dare to speak unkindly of him to me -’

    My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary intention of committing an assault and battery upon my aunt, who could easily have settled her with one hand, even if my mother had been in far better training for such an encounter than she was that evening. But it passed with the action of rising from her chair; and she sat down again very meekly, and fainted.

    When she came to herself, or when Miss Betsey had restored her, whichever it was, she found the latter standing at the window. The twilight was by this time shading down into darkness; and dimly as they saw each other, they could not have done that without the aid of the fire.

    ‘Well?’ said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as if she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect; ‘and when do you expect -’

    ‘I am all in a tremble,’ faltered my mother. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter. I shall die, I am sure!’

    ‘No, no, no,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Have some tea.’

    ‘Oh dear me, dear me, do you think it will do me any good?’ cried my mother in a helpless manner.

    ‘Of course it will,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘It’s nothing but fancy. What do you call your girl?’

    ‘I don’t know that it will be a girl, yet, ma’am,’ said my mother innocently.

    ‘Bless the Baby!’ exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconsciously quoting the second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer upstairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me, ‘I don’t mean that. I mean your servant-girl.’

    ‘Peggotty,’ said my mother.

    ‘Peggotty!’ repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation. ‘Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone into a Christian church, and got herself named Peggotty?’ ‘It’s her surname,’ said my mother, faintly. ‘Mr. Copperfield called her by it, because her Christian name was the same as mine.’

    ‘Here! Peggotty!’ cried Miss Betsey, opening the parlour door. ‘Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don’t dawdle.’

    Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality as if she had been a recognized authority in the house ever since it had been a house, and having looked out to confront the amazed Peggotty coming along the passage with a candle at the sound of a strange voice, Miss Betsey shut the door again, and sat down as before: with her feet on the fender, the skirt of her dress tucked up, and her hands folded on one knee.

    ‘You were speaking about its being a girl,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘I have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presentiment that it must be a girl. Now child, from the moment of the birth of this girl -’

    ‘Perhaps boy,’ my mother took the liberty of putting in.

    ‘I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl,’ returned Miss Betsey. ‘Don’t contradict. From the moment of this girl’s birth, child, I intend to be her friend. I intend to be her godmother, and I beg you’ll call her Betsey Trotwood Copperfield. There must be no mistakes in life with this Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with her affections, poor dear. She must be well brought up, and well guarded from reposing any foolish confidences where they are not deserved. I must make that my care.’

    There was a twitch of Miss Betsey’s head, after each of these sentences, as if her own old wrongs were working within her, and she repressed any plainer reference to them by strong constraint. So my mother suspected, at least, as she observed her by the low glimmer of the fire: too much scared by Miss Betsey, too uneasy in herself, and too subdued and bewildered altogether, to observe anything very clearly, or to know what to say.

    ‘And was David good to you, child?’ asked Miss Betsey, when she had been silent for a little while, and these motions of her head had gradually ceased. ‘Were you comfortable together?’

    ‘We were very happy,’ said my mother. ‘Mr. Copperfield was only too good to me.’

    ‘What, he spoilt you, I suppose?’ returned Miss Betsey.

    ‘For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough world again, yes, I fear he did indeed,’ sobbed my mother.

    ‘Well! Don’t cry!’ said Miss Betsey. ‘You were not equally matched, child - if any two people can be equally matched - and so I asked the question. You were an orphan, weren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’

    ‘And a governess?’

    ‘I was nursery-governess in a family where Mr. Copperfield came to visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me, and took a great deal of notice of me, and paid me a good deal of attention, and at last proposed to me. And I accepted him. And so we were married,’ said my mother simply.

    ‘Ha! Poor Baby!’ mused Miss Betsey, with her frown still bent upon the fire. ‘Do you know anything?’

    ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ faltered my mother.

    ‘About keeping house, for instance,’ said Miss Betsey.

    ‘Not much, I fear,’ returned my mother. ‘Not so much as I could wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me -’

    (’Much he knew about it himself!’) said Miss Betsey in a parenthesis.

    - ‘And I hope I should have improved, being very anxious to learn, and he very patient to teach me, if the great misfortune of his death’ - my mother broke down again here, and could get no farther.

    ‘Well, well!’ said Miss Betsey.

    -‘I kept my housekeeping-book regularly, and balanced it with Mr. Copperfield every night,’ cried my mother in another burst of distress, and breaking down again.

    ‘Well, well!’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Don’t cry any more.’

    - ‘And I am sure we never had a word of difference respecting it, except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my threes and fives being too much like each other, or to my putting curly tails to my sevens and nines,’ resumed my mother in another burst, and breaking down again.

    ‘You’ll make yourself ill,’ said Miss Betsey, ‘and you know that will not be good either for you or for my god-daughter. Come! You mustn’t do it!’

    This argument had some share in quieting my mother, though her increasing indisposition had a larger one. There was an interval of silence, only broken by Miss Betsey’s occasionally ejaculating ‘Ha!’ as she sat with her feet upon the fender.

    ‘David had bought an annuity for himself with his money, I know,’ said she, by and by. ‘What did he do for you?’

    ‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said my mother, answering with some difficulty, ‘was so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part of it to me.’

    ‘How much?’ asked Miss Betsey.

    ‘A hundred and five pounds a year,’ said my mother.

    ‘He might have done worse,’ said my aunt.

    The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the teaboard and candles, and seeing at a glance how ill she was, - as Miss Betsey might have done sooner if there had been light enough, - conveyed her upstairs to her own room with all speed; and immediately dispatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who had been for some days past secreted in the house, unknown to my mother, as a special messenger in case of emergency, to fetch the nurse and doctor.

    Those allied powers were considerably astonished, when they arrived within a few minutes of each other, to find an unknown lady of portentous appearance, sitting before the fire, with her bonnet tied over her left arm, stopping her ears with jewellers’ cotton. Peggotty knowing nothing about her, and my mother saying nothing about her, she was quite a mystery in the parlour; and the fact of her having a magazine of jewellers’ cotton in her pocket, and sticking the article in her ears in that way, did not detract from the solemnity of her presence.

    The doctor having been upstairs and come down again, and having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a probability of this unknown lady and himself having to sit there, face to face, for some hours, laid himself out to be polite and social. He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room, to take up the less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in modest depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else. It is nothing to say that he hadn’t a word to throw at a dog. He couldn’t have thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have offered him one gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one; for he spoke as slowly as he walked; but he wouldn’t have been rude to him, and he couldn’t have been quick with him, for any earthly consideration.

    Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on one side, and making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the jewellers’ cotton, as he softly touched his left ear:

    ‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’

    ‘What!’ replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear like a cork.

    Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness - as he told my mother afterwards - that it was a mercy he didn’t lose his presence of mind. But he repeated sweetly:

    ‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’

    ‘Nonsense!’ replied my aunt, and corked herself again, at one blow.

    Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this, but sit and look at her feebly, as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was called upstairs again. After some quarter of an hour’s absence, he returned.

    ‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear nearest to him.

    ‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are- we are progressing slowly, ma’am.’

    ‘Ba—a—ah!’ said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the contemptuous interjection. And corked herself as before.

    Really - really - as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was almost shocked; speaking in a professional point of view alone, he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her, notwithstanding, for nearly two hours, as she sat looking at the fire, until he was again called out. After another absence, he again returned.

    ‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side again.

    ‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are - we are progressing slowly, ma’am.’

    ‘Ya—a—ah!’ said my aunt. With such a snarl at him, that Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really calculated to break his spirit, he said afterwards. He preferred to go and sit upon the stairs, in the dark and a strong draught, until he was again sent for.

    Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school, and was a very dragon at his catechism, and who may therefore be regarded as a credible witness, reported next day, that happening to peep in at the parlour-door an hour after this, he was instantly descried by Miss Betsey, then walking to and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make his escape. That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices overhead which he inferred the cotton did not exclude, from the circumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to expend her superabundant agitation when the sounds were loudest. That, marching him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had been taking too much laudanum), she, at those times, shook him, rumpled his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded them with her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half past twelve o’clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was.

    The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlour as soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest manner:

    ‘Well, ma’am, I am happy to congratulate you.’

    ‘What upon?’ said my aunt, sharply.

    Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme severity of my aunt’s manner; so he made her a little bow and gave her a little smile, to mollify her.

    ‘Mercy on the man, what’s he doing!’ cried my aunt, impatiently. ‘Can’t he speak?’

    ‘Be calm, my dear ma’am,’ said Mr. Chillip, in his softest accents.

    ‘There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma’am. Be calm.’

    It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn’t shake him, and shake what he had to say, out of him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way that made him quail.

    ‘Well, ma’am,’ resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had courage, ‘I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over, ma’am, and well over.’

    During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly.

    ‘How is she?’ said my aunt, folding her arms with her bonnet still tied on one of them.

    ‘Well, ma’am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,’ returned Mr. Chillip. ‘Quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother to be, under these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your seeing her presently, ma’am. It may do her good.’

    ‘And she. How is she?’ said my aunt, sharply.

    Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked at my aunt like an amiable bird.

    ‘The baby,’ said my aunt. ‘How is she?’

    ‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘I apprehended you had known. It’s a boy.’

    My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip’s head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy; or like one of those supernatural beings, whom it was popularly supposed I was entitled to see; and never came back any more.

    No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed; but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had so lately travelled; and the light upon the window of our room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travellers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he, without whom I had never been.

    Chapter 2

    I Observe

    The first objects that assume a distinct presence before me, as I look far back, into the blank of my infancy, are my mother with her pretty hair and youthful shape, and Peggotty with no shape at all, and eyes so dark that they seemed to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, and cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wondered the birds didn’t peck her in preference to apples.

    I believe I can remember these two at a little distance apart, dwarfed to my sight by stooping down or kneeling on the floor, and I going unsteadily from the one to the other. I have an impression on my mind which I cannot distinguish from actual remembrance, of the touch of Peggotty’s forefinger as she used to hold it out to me, and of its being roughened by needlework, like a pocket nutmeg-grater.

    This may be fancy, though I think the memory of most of us can go farther back into such times than many of us suppose; just as I believe the power of observation in numbers of very young children to be quite wonderful for its closeness and accuracy. Indeed, I think that most grown men who are remarkable in this respect, may with greater propriety be said not to have lost the faculty, than to have acquired it; the rather, as I generally observe such men to retain a certain freshness, and gentleness, and capacity of being pleased, which are also an inheritance they have preserved from their childhood.

    I might have a misgiving that I am ‘meandering’ in stopping to say this, but that it brings me to remark that I build these conclusions, in part upon my own experience of myself; and if it should appear from anything I may set down in this narrative that I was a child of close observation, or that as a man I have a strong memory of my childhood, I undoubtedly lay claim to both of these characteristics.

    Looking back, as I was saying, into the blank of my infancy, the first objects I can remember as standing out by themselves from a confusion of things, are my mother and Peggotty. What else do I remember? Let me see.

    There comes out of the cloud, our house - not new to me, but quite familiar, in its earliest remembrance. On the ground-floor is Peggotty’s kitchen, opening into a back yard; with a pigeon-house on a pole, in the centre, without any pigeons in it; a great dog- kennel in a corner, without any dog; and a quantity of fowls that look terribly tall to me, walking about, in a menacing and ferocious manner. There is one cock who gets upon a post to crow, and seems to take particular notice of me as I look at him through the kitchen window, who makes me shiver, he is so fierce. Of the geese outside the side-gate who come waddling after me with their long necks stretched out when I go that way, I dream at night: as a man environed by wild beasts might dream of lions.

    Here is a long passage - what an enormous perspective I make of it! - leading from Peggotty’s kitchen to the front door. A dark store-room opens out of it, and that is a place to be run past at night; for I don’t know what may be among those tubs and jars and old tea-chests, when there is nobody in there with a dimly-burning light, letting a mouldy air come out of the door, in which there is the smell of soap, pickles, pepper, candles, and coffee, all at one whiff. Then there are the two parlours: the parlour in which we sit of an evening, my mother and I and Peggotty - for Peggotty is quite our companion, when her work is done and we are alone - and the best parlour where we sit on a Sunday; grandly, but not so comfortably. There is something of a doleful air about that room to me, for Peggotty has told me - I don’t know when, but apparently ages ago - about my father’s funeral, and the company having their black cloaks put on. One Sunday night my mother reads to Peggotty and me in there, how Lazarus was raised up from the dead. And I am so frightened that they are afterwards obliged to take me out of bed, and show me the quiet churchyard out of the bedroom window, with the dead all lying in their graves at rest, below the solemn moon.

    There is nothing half so green that I know anywhere, as the grass of that churchyard; nothing half so shady as its trees; nothing half so quiet as its tombstones. The sheep are feeding there, when I kneel up, early in the morning, in my little bed in a closet within my mother’s room, to look out at it; and I see the red light shining on the sun-dial, and think within myself, ‘Is the sun-dial glad, I wonder, that it can tell the time again?’

    Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew! With a window near it, out of which our house can be seen, and is seen many times during the morning’s service, by Peggotty, who likes to make herself as sure as she can that it’s not being robbed, or is not in flames. But though Peggotty’s eye wanders, she is much offended if mine does, and frowns to me, as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at the clergyman. But I can’t always look at him - I know him without that white thing on, and I am afraid of his wondering why I stare so, and perhaps stopping the service to inquire - and what am I to do? It’s a dreadful thing to gape, but I must do something. I look at my mother, but she pretends not to see me. I look at a boy in the aisle, and he makes faces at me. I look at the sunlight coming in at the open door through the porch, and there I see a stray sheep - I don’t mean a sinner, but mutton - half making up his mind to come into the church. I feel that if I looked at him any longer, I might be tempted to say something out loud; and what would become of me then! I look up at the monumental tablets on the wall, and try to think of Mr. Bodgers late of this parish, and what the feelings of Mrs. Bodgers must have been, when affliction sore, long time Mr. Bodgers bore, and physicians were in vain. I wonder whether they called in Mr. Chillip, and he was in vain; and if so, how he likes to be reminded of it once a week. I look from Mr. Chillip, in his Sunday neckcloth, to the pulpit; and think what a good place it would be to play in, and what a castle it would make, with another boy coming up the stairs to attack it, and having the velvet cushion with the tassels thrown down on his head. In time my eyes gradually shut up; and, from seeming to hear the clergyman singing a drowsy song in the heat, I hear nothing, until I fall off the seat with a crash, and am taken out, more dead than alive, by Peggotty.

    And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling air, and the ragged old rooks’-nests still dangling in the elm-trees at the bottom of the front garden. Now I am in the garden at the back, beyond the yard where the empty pigeon-house and dog-kennel are - a very preserve of butterflies, as I remember it, with a high fence, and a gate and padlock; where the fruit clusters on the trees, riper and richer than fruit has ever been since, in any other garden, and where my mother gathers some in a basket, while I stand by, bolting furtive gooseberries, and trying to look unmoved. A great wind rises, and the summer is gone in a moment. We are playing in the winter twilight, dancing about the parlour. When my mother is out of breath and rests herself in an elbow-chair, I watch her winding her bright curls round her fingers, and straitening her waist, and nobody knows better than I do that she likes to look so well, and is proud of being so pretty.

    That is among my very earliest impressions. That, and a sense that we were both a little afraid of Peggotty, and submitted ourselves in most things to her direction, were among the first opinions - if they may be so called - that I ever derived from what I saw.

    Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlour fire, alone. I had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I must have read very perspicuously, or the poor soul must have been deeply interested, for I remember she had a cloudy impression, after I had done, that they were a sort of vegetable. I was tired of reading, and dead sleepy; but having leave, as a high treat, to sit up until my mother came home from spending the evening at a neighbour’s, I would rather have died upon my post (of course) than have gone to bed. I had reached that stage of sleepiness when Peggotty seemed to swell and grow immensely large. I propped my eyelids open with my two forefingers, and looked perseveringly at her as she sat at work; at the little bit of wax-candle she kept for her thread - how old it looked, being so wrinkled in all directions! - at the little house with a thatched roof, where the yard-measure lived; at her work-box with a sliding lid, with a view of St. Paul’s Cathedral (with a pink dome) painted on the top; at the brass thimble on her finger; at herself, whom I thought lovely. I felt so sleepy, that I knew if I lost sight of anything for a moment, I was gone.

    ‘Peggotty,’ says I, suddenly, ‘were you ever married?’

    ‘Lord, Master Davy,’ replied Peggotty. ‘What’s put marriage in your head?’

    She answered with such a start, that it quite awoke me. And then she stopped in her work, and looked at me, with her needle drawn out to its thread’s length.

    ‘But were you ever married, Peggotty?’ says I. ‘You are a very handsome woman, an’t you?’

    I thought her in a different style from my mother, certainly; but of another school of beauty, I considered her a perfect example. There was a red velvet footstool in the best parlour, on which my mother had painted a nosegay. The ground-work of that stool, and Peggotty’s complexion appeared to me to be one and the same thing. The stool was smooth, and Peggotty was rough, but that made no difference.

    ‘Me handsome, Davy!’ said Peggotty. ‘Lawk, no, my dear! But what put marriage in your head?’

    ‘I don’t know! - You mustn’t marry more than one person at a time, may you, Peggotty?’

    ‘Certainly not,’ says Peggotty, with the promptest decision.

    ‘But if you marry a person, and the person dies, why then you may marry another person, mayn’t you, Peggotty?’

    ‘You may,’ says Peggotty, ‘if you choose, my dear. That’s a matter of opinion.’

    ‘But what is your opinion, Peggotty?’ said I.

    I asked her, and looked curiously at her, because she looked so curiously at me.

    ‘My opinion is,’ said Peggotty, taking her eyes from me, after a little indecision and going on with her work, ‘that I never was married myself, Master Davy, and that I don’t expect to be. That’s all I know about the subject.’

    ‘You an’t cross, I suppose, Peggotty, are you?’ said I, after sitting quiet for a minute.

    I really thought she was, she had been so short with me; but I was quite mistaken: for she laid aside her work (which was a stocking of her own), and opening her arms wide, took my curly head within them, and gave it a good squeeze. I know it was a good squeeze, because, being very plump, whenever she made any little exertion after she was dressed, some of the buttons on the back of her gown flew off. And I recollect two bursting to the opposite side of the parlour, while she was hugging me.

    ‘Now let me hear some more about the Crorkindills,’ said Peggotty, who was not quite right in the name yet, ‘for I an’t heard half enough.’

    I couldn’t quite understand why Peggotty looked so queer, or why she was so ready to go back to the crocodiles. However, we returned to those monsters, with fresh wakefulness on my part, and we left their eggs in the sand for the sun to hatch; and we ran away from them, and baffled them by constantly turning, which they were unable to do quickly, on account of their unwieldy make; and we went into the water after them, as natives, and put sharp pieces of timber down their throats; and in short we ran the whole crocodile gauntlet. I did, at least; but I had my doubts of Peggotty, who was thoughtfully sticking her needle into various parts of her face and arms, all the time.

    We had exhausted the crocodiles, and begun with the alligators, when the garden-bell rang. We went out to the door; and there was my mother, looking unusually pretty, I thought, and with her a gentleman with beautiful black hair and whiskers, who had walked home with us from church last Sunday.

    As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me in her arms and kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly privileged little fellow than a monarch - or something like that; for my later understanding comes, I am sensible, to my aid here.

    ‘What does that mean?’ I asked him, over her shoulder.

    He patted me on the head; but somehow, I didn’t like him or his deep voice, and I was jealous that his hand should touch my mother’s in touching me - which it did. I put it away, as well as I could.

    ‘Oh, Davy!’ remonstrated my mother.

    ‘Dear boy!’ said the gentleman. ‘I cannot wonder at his devotion!’

    I never saw such a beautiful colour on my mother’s face before. She gently chid me for being rude; and, keeping me close to her shawl, turned to thank the gentleman for taking so much trouble as to bring her home. She put out her hand to him as she spoke, and, as he met it with his own, she glanced, I thought, at me.

    ‘Let us say good night, my fine boy,’ said the gentleman, when he had bent his head - I saw him! - over my mother’s little glove.

    ‘Good night!’ said I.

    ‘Come! Let us be the best friends in the world!’ said the gentleman, laughing. ‘Shake hands!’

    My right hand was in my mother’s left, so I gave him the other.

    ‘Why, that’s the Wrong hand, Davy!’ laughed the gentleman.

    My mother drew my right hand forward, but I was resolved, for my former reason, not to give it him, and I did not. I gave him the other, and he shook it heartily, and said I was a brave fellow, and went away.

    At this minute I see him turn round in the garden, and give us a last look with his ill-omened black eyes, before the door was shut.

    Peggotty, who had not said a word or moved a finger, secured the fastenings instantly, and we all went into the parlour. My mother, contrary to her usual habit, instead of coming to the elbow-chair by the fire, remained at the other end of the room, and sat singing to herself.

    - ‘Hope you have had a pleasant evening, ma’am,’ said Peggotty, standing as stiff as a barrel in the centre of the room, with a candlestick in her hand.

    ‘Much obliged to you, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, in a cheerful voice, ‘I have had a very pleasant evening.’

    ‘A stranger or so makes an agreeable change,’ suggested Peggotty.

    ‘A very agreeable change, indeed,’ returned my mother.

    Peggotty continuing to stand motionless in the middle of the room, and my mother resuming her singing, I fell asleep, though I was not so sound asleep but that I could hear voices, without hearing what they said. When I half awoke from this uncomfortable doze, I found Peggotty and my mother both in tears, and both talking.

    ‘Not such a one as this, Mr. Copperfield wouldn’t have liked,’ said Peggotty. ‘That I say, and that I swear!’

    ‘Good Heavens!’ cried my mother, ‘you’ll drive me mad! Was ever any poor girl so ill-used by her servants as I am! Why do I do myself the injustice of calling myself a girl? Have I never been married, Peggotty?’

    ‘God knows you have, ma’am,’ returned Peggotty. ‘Then, how can you dare,’ said my mother - ‘you know I don’t mean how can you dare, Peggotty, but how can you have the heart - to make me so uncomfortable and say such bitter things to me, when you are well aware that I haven’t, out of this place, a single friend to turn to?’

    ‘The more’s the reason,’ returned Peggotty, ‘for saying that it won’t do. No! That it won’t do. No! No price could make it do. No!’ - I thought Peggotty would have thrown the candlestick away, she was so emphatic with it.

    ‘How can you be so aggravating,’ said my mother, shedding more tears than before, ‘as to talk in such an unjust manner! How can you go on as if it was all settled and arranged, Peggotty, when I tell you over and over again, you cruel thing, that beyond the commonest civilities nothing has passed! You talk of admiration. What am I to do? If people are so silly as to indulge the sentiment, is it my fault? What am I to do, I ask you? Would you wish me to shave my head and black my face, or disfigure myself with a burn, or a scald, or something of that sort? I dare say you would, Peggotty. I dare say you’d quite enjoy it.’

    Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much to heart, I thought.

    ‘And my dear boy,’ cried my mother, coming to the elbow-chair in which I was, and caressing me, ‘my own little Davy! Is it to be hinted to me that I am wanting in affection for my precious treasure, the dearest little fellow that ever was!’

    ‘Nobody never went and hinted no such a thing,’ said Peggotty.

    ‘You did, Peggotty!’ returned my mother. ‘You know you did. What else was it possible to infer from what you said, you unkind creature, when you know as well as I do, that on his account only last quarter I wouldn’t buy myself a new parasol, though that old green one is frayed the whole way up, and the fringe is perfectly mangy? You know it is, Peggotty. You can’t deny it.’ Then, turning affectionately to me, with her cheek against mine, ‘Am I a naughty mama to you, Davy? Am I a nasty, cruel, selfish, bad mama? Say I am, my child; say yes, dear boy, and Peggotty will love you; and Peggotty’s love is a great deal better than mine, Davy. I don’t love you at all, do I?’

    At this, we all fell a-crying together. I think I was the loudest of the party, but I am sure we were all sincere about it. I was quite heart-broken myself, and am afraid that in the first transports of wounded tenderness I called Peggotty a ‘Beast’. That honest creature was in deep affliction, I remember, and must have become quite buttonless on the occasion; for a little volley of those explosives went off, when, after having made it up with my mother, she kneeled down by the elbow-chair, and made it up with me.

    We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking me, for a long time; and when one very strong sob quite hoisted me up in bed, I found my mother sitting on the coverlet, and leaning over me. I fell asleep in her arms, after that, and slept soundly.

    Whether it was the following Sunday when I saw the gentleman again, or whether there was any greater lapse of time before he reappeared, I cannot recall. I don’t profess to be clear about dates. But there he was, in church, and he walked home with us afterwards. He came in, too, to look at a famous geranium we had, in the parlour-window. It did not appear to me that he took much notice of it, but before he went he asked my mother to give him a bit of the blossom. She begged him to choose it for himself, but he refused to do that - I could not understand why - so she plucked it for him, and gave it into his hand. He said he would never, never part with it any more; and I thought he must be quite a fool not to know that it would fall to pieces in a day or two.

    Peggotty began to be less with us, of an evening, than she had always been. My mother deferred to her very much - more than usual, it occurred to me - and we were all three excellent friends; still we were different from what we used to be, and were not so comfortable among ourselves. Sometimes I fancied that Peggotty perhaps objected to my mother’s wearing all the pretty dresses she had in her drawers, or to her going so often to visit at that neighbour’s; but I couldn’t, to my satisfaction, make out how it was.

    Gradually, I became used to seeing the gentleman with the black whiskers. I liked him no better than at first, and had the same uneasy jealousy of him; but if I had any reason for it beyond a child’s instinctive dislike, and a general idea that Peggotty and I could make much of my mother without any help, it certainly was not the reason that I might have found if I had been older. No such thing came into my mind, or near it. I could observe, in little pieces, as it were; but as to making a net of a number of these pieces, and catching anybody in it, that was, as yet, beyond me.

    One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front garden, when Mr. Murdstone - I knew him by that name now - came by, on horseback. He reined up his horse to salute my mother, and said he was going to Lowestoft to see some friends who were there with a yacht, and merrily proposed to take me on the saddle before him if I would like the ride.

    The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed to like the idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood snorting and pawing at the garden-gate, that I had a great desire to go. So I was sent upstairs to Peggotty to be made spruce; and in the meantime Mr. Murdstone dismounted, and, with his horse’s bridle drawn over his arm, walked slowly up and down on the outer side of the sweetbriar fence, while my mother walked slowly up and down on the inner to keep him company. I recollect Peggotty and I peeping out at them from my little window; I recollect how closely they seemed to be examining the sweetbriar between them, as they strolled along; and how, from being in a perfectly angelic temper, Peggotty turned cross in a moment, and brushed my hair the wrong way, excessively hard.

    Mr. Murdstone and I were soon off, and trotting along on the green turf by the side of the road. He held me quite easily with one arm, and I don’t think I was restless usually; but I could not make up my mind to sit in front of him without turning my head sometimes, and looking up in his face. He had that kind of shallow black eye - I want a better word to express an eye that has no depth in it to be looked into - which, when it is abstracted, seems from some peculiarity of light to be disfigured, for a moment at a time, by a cast. Several times when I glanced at him, I observed that appearance with a sort of awe, and wondered what he was thinking about so closely. His hair and whiskers were blacker and thicker, looked at so near, than even I had given them credit for being. A squareness about the lower part of his face, and the dotted indication of the strong black beard he shaved close every day, reminded me of the wax-work that had travelled into our neighbourhood some half-a-year before. This, his regular eyebrows, and the rich white, and black, and brown, of his complexion - confound his complexion, and his memory! - made me think him, in spite of my misgivings, a very handsome man. I have no doubt that my poor dear mother thought him so too.

    We went to an hotel by the sea, where two gentlemen were smoking cigars in a room by themselves. Each of them was lying on at least four chairs, and had a large rough jacket on. In a corner was a heap of coats and boat-cloaks, and a flag, all bundled up together.

    They both rolled on to their feet in an untidy sort of manner, when we came in, and said, ‘Halloa, Murdstone! We thought you were dead!’

    ‘Not yet,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

    ‘And who’s this shaver?’ said one of the gentlemen, taking hold of me.

    ‘That’s Davy,’ returned Mr. Murdstone.

    ‘Davy who?’ said the gentleman. ‘Jones?’

    ‘Copperfield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

    ‘What! Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield’s encumbrance?’ cried the gentleman. ‘The pretty little widow?’

    ‘Quinion,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘take care, if you please. Somebody’s sharp.’

    ‘Who is?’ asked the gentleman, laughing. I looked up, quickly; being curious to know.

    ‘Only Brooks of Sheffield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

    I was quite relieved to find that it was only Brooks of Sheffield; for, at first, I really thought it was I.

    There seemed to be something very comical in the reputation of Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, for both the gentlemen laughed heartily when he was mentioned, and Mr. Murdstone was a good deal amused also. After some laughing, the gentleman whom he had called Quinion, said:

    ‘And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffield, in reference to the projected business?’

    ‘Why, I don’t know that Brooks understands much about it at present,’ replied Mr. Murdstone; ‘but he is not generally favourable, I believe.’

    There was more laughter at this, and Mr. Quinion said he would ring the bell for some sherry in which to drink to Brooks. This he did; and when the wine came, he made me have a little, with a biscuit, and, before I drank it, stand up and say, ‘Confusion to Brooks of Sheffield!’ The toast was received with great applause, and such hearty laughter that it made me laugh too; at which they laughed the more. In short, we quite enjoyed ourselves.

    We walked about on the cliff after that, and sat on the grass, and looked at things through a telescope - I could make out nothing myself when it was put to my eye, but I pretended I could - and then we came back to the hotel to an early dinner. All the time we were out, the two gentlemen smoked incessantly - which, I thought, if I might judge from the smell of their rough coats, they must have been doing, ever since the coats had first come home from the tailor’s. I must not forget that we went on board the yacht, where they all three descended into the cabin, and were busy with some papers. I saw them quite hard at work, when I looked down through the open skylight. They left me, during this time, with a very nice man with a very large head of red hair and a very small shiny hat upon it, who had got a cross-barred shirt or waistcoat on, with ‘Skylark’ in capital letters across the chest. I thought it was his name; and that as he lived on board ship and hadn’t a street door to put his name on, he put it there instead; but when I called him Mr. Skylark, he said it meant the vessel.

    I observed all day that Mr. Murdstone was graver and steadier than the two gentlemen. They were very gay and careless. They joked freely with one another, but seldom with him. It appeared to me that he was more clever and cold than they were, and that they regarded him with something of my own feeling. I remarked that, once or twice when Mr. Quinion was talking, he looked at Mr. Murdstone sideways, as if to make sure of his not being displeased; and that once when Mr. Passnidge (the other gentleman) was in high spirits, he trod upon his foot, and gave him a secret caution with his eyes, to observe Mr. Murdstone, who was sitting stern and silent. Nor do I recollect that Mr. Murdstone laughed at all that day, except at the Sheffield joke - and that, by the by, was his own.

    We went home early in the evening. It was a very fine evening, and my mother and he had another stroll by the sweetbriar, while I was sent in to get my tea. When he was gone, my mother asked me all about the day I had had, and what they had said and done. I mentioned what they had said about her, and she laughed, and told me they were impudent fellows who talked nonsense - but I knew it pleased her. I knew it quite as well as I know it now. I took the opportunity of asking if she was at all acquainted with Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, but she answered No, only she supposed he must be a manufacturer in the knife and fork way.

    Can I say of her face - altered as I have reason to remember it, perished as I know it is - that it is gone, when here it comes before me at this instant, as distinct as any face that I may choose to look on in a crowded street? Can I say of her innocent and girlish beauty, that it faded, and was no more, when its breath falls on my cheek now, as it fell that night? Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance brings her back to life, thus only; and, truer to its loving youth than I have been, or man ever is, still holds fast what it cherished then?

    I write of her just as she was when I had gone to bed after this talk, and she came to bid me good night. She kneeled down playfully by the side of the bed, and laying her chin upon her hands, and laughing, said:

    ‘What was it they said, Davy? Tell me again. I can’t believe it.’

    ‘Bewitching -’ I began.

    My mother put her hands upon my lips to stop me.

    ‘It was never bewitching,’ she said, laughing. ‘It never could have been bewitching, Davy. Now I know it wasn’t!’

    ‘Yes, it was. Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield,’ I repeated stoutly. ‘And, pretty.’

    ‘No, no, it was never pretty. Not pretty,’ interposed my mother, laying her fingers on my lips again.

    ‘Yes it was. Pretty little widow.’

    ‘What foolish, impudent creatures!’ cried my mother, laughing and covering her face. ‘What ridiculous men! An’t they? Davy dear -’

    ‘Well, Ma.’

    ‘Don’t tell Peggotty; she might be angry with them. I am dreadfully angry with them myself; but I would rather Peggotty didn’t

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